


Cathartic

by Cumberbatch Critter (ivelostmyspectacles)



Category: Forever (TV)
Genre: Dominance, Dominatrix, F/M, Gen, Not Particularly Romance, Pain, Probably Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2014-12-16
Packaged: 2018-03-01 18:04:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2782514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivelostmyspectacles/pseuds/Cumberbatch%20Critter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The crop's blow hits him in the middle of his back, pressing against the ridges of his spine. He jerks against the sharp smack of pain and groans into his scarf, muffling words into sound and then sound into nothing.</p><p> </p><p>It isn't about sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cathartic

**Author's Note:**

> Uggghhh writing this was difficult, I feel really dirty writing smut in this fandom, I don't know why.  
> Implied setting: post Skinny Dipper.
> 
> I do not own _Forever_. Thanks for reading!

It isn't about sex, Henry rationalises, head lolling to the right to rest heavily against his bare shoulder, arms aching against the strain of the spreader bar and the cuffs. He had known that it wasn't only just about sex, but this cinches it. He struggles to regain a breathing pattern that is healthy, and ignores the way the sweat trickling down his temples feels overly sensitive.

The crop's blow hits him in the middle of his back, pressing against the ridges of his spine. He jerks against the sharp smack of pain and groans into his scarf, muffling words into sound and then sound into nothing.

He had told her to gag him. It wasn't for a lack of trust towards her. He trusted her. He didn't know why, asides from the fact that that was her job, to _make_ people trust her so that she could take them apart, piece by piece.

The gag is for a lack of trust towards himself. He's never been through something like this before, and he doesn't fancy the things that may come out of his mouth after so many blows from the whip or a flogger.

He hadn't been quick to dismiss the trickle of cold excitement that had gone through his veins when she had taken the scarf he'd been wearing in the thick of the winter cold, twisted it into itself, and said _"open"_.

This teaches him, he supposes, to wash his scarf more regularly.

The press of the fabric against his tongue is heavy, and he struggles to breathe, and swallow, and gasp against it. That's all fine. He can't say _Nora, no, please, tell them!_ or recount _I'm sorry, you've got the wrong person_ with the firm press of his scarf in his mouth.

"You're in your head again, Henry Morgan," Iona says, and Henry raises his head to find that she's directly in front of him.

He mumbles an apology that gets lost beneath the gag; he tries for repentant as an expression and apparently passes. Iona smiles so tenderly that Henry forgets - for only a moment - that she is dominating him and not doctoring him. Then he correctly remembers: she is doing both at the same time, and her soft smile coupled with her firm hand is taking him out of his carefully crafted control.

"Don't retreat from me," Iona continues, "because, in this moment, you belong to me." The riding crop touches against his chest. "Do you understand?"

Henry draws in a breath through his nose, and assents with a nod.

He most assuredly does not squirm at the soft touch of the pad of the crop against his skin. It's hot in her apartment, a welcome distraction from the cold outside, but the heat and the recreational scolding has made his body over-sensitised. He jerks at the cool touch of the crop as it passes over a nipple, and then he wants to berate himself over the motion, until Iona does it for him; three sharp smacks against his strained bicep muscles and Henry bites into the gag hard enough that his jaw aches.

" _Henry_ ," Iona says absently, a little chastising.

Henry isn't sure what she wants. She hadn't said what she had wanted when he had come to her. He hadn't specified, either. Just a gag. The rest had been all Iona, and Henry had found that he was more or less willing to try anything, especially now.

He hears Iona move away, but his eyes have slipped shut again and he doesn't open them at the movement. He will find out soon-

Pain lashes out against his back. Henry's yell of equal parts surprise and equal parts pain is muffled into the gag. He barely has time to catch his breath before the next blow, and the next, and Henry doesn't catch himself at all; not his breath, not the sounds he makes, and not the strangely euphoric sense of release as Iona _whips_ him without pause.

He doesn't know the whipping stops. He can still feel the sting of the lash marks. He imagines that those marks will be there for awhile. The thought isn't unpleasant.

 

He doesn't make the hour session.

Even afterwards, he isn't quite sure why.

Iona goes nowhere near erotic electrocution, asphyxiation, chains, or even putting his arms into the traditional stress position. Henry is infinitely grateful.

Yet, all he knows is that, somewhere in between soft - the feather duster; he had decided that it wasn't for the sensitive nerve endings quite quickly _("Henry, you're ticklish! That is actually really endearing.")_ \- and rough - the whip was probably the worst, although the flogger was barely better _("Count."_ Whack. _"Out."_ Whack _"Loud."_   Whack. _"Henry."_ Whack. Even with his counting garbled from the gag) - Henry lost himself.

He doesn't know where the tears come from. He isn't actually aware of the fact that he's crying until Iona's silk-gloved fingers pull the scarf out of his mouth and he gasps and chokes and sobs. He'd be more embarrassed about the whole thing if he was here for sex, but it's not about that. It's... about _this_.

"It's okay, it's okay," Iona says, over and over, into his ear as she guides him over to the chaise.

Henry begs to differ, but he says nothing at all, and ducks his head against her shoulder. The smell of her perfume is strong in the heat of the room, and her gloved hands are cool against his sweaty skin. She is careful not to touch the whip marks on his back. The ones on his chest he ignores in favour of leaning into Iona's embrace.

"You don't have to shoulder your burdens alone, Henry," Iona says, absent-mindedly stroking her fingers back through his hair. "You do not have to be in control all the time."

 _I do_ , Henry thinks wryly. But he's got wounds and a sore throat to disprove the theory, and his cheeks are damp and clammy as the pain wracks his body. Mental, not physical. Henry struggles on the edge of regaining control. He lets himself crumble instead.

　

 

"You look horrible," Abe says, later that night.

Henry tilts his head.

He's bruised and battered, but he feels light.

"I feel good," he says with a smile.

Abe gives him a searching look, but evidently decides that Henry is telling the truth. He smiles. "Well, good."

Henry almost beams back at him.

 

He's bruised and he's battered, his eyes are rimmed red, and there's bruises forming around his wrists.

He sleeps better that night than he has in years.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Also, yes, I write bad smutty stuff. I'm sorry. /blissful ignorance


End file.
